Survival
by jkwasher
Summary: Now multi-chapter! Begins about a year after S3E10, with references to books HiE and AtCF during a congenial evening at Walt's cabin, as Walt finally experiences Vic's Lasagna Rustica. This story explores the past 10 months before moving into the future. Walt and Vic contemplate career advancement, retirement, family and a permanent relationship.
1. Chapter 1

**Survival**

**(Set after S3E10 and references HiE and AtCF books)**

**Kudos to the creator of Durant, and merely an homage to his characters. After a reader PM'd and contested my use of "Tensleep," I will refer you to the mountainous recreation area and Permian sandstone, which are indeed spelled "Tensleep." The tiny town itself is spelled "Ten Sleep." Hope this helps. Also, an Italian feast with centerpiece might not fit on the kitchen table for 3 in Walt's cabin. Also, we have NO idea how Vic is with horses in general; we have only seen her with a recently-traumatized wild horse, in the context of catching a murder suspect. She may be fine with horses; she got Horse to the vet just fine in S2E8. I also haven't found any specific references in the books. These just explain a few of my choices, here.**

"Shouldn't there be some sort of survival course for prospective SITs?" Vic asked, sipping her third glass of a lovely red wine that evening, courtesy of Henry Standing Bear. Walt had resorted to his default Rainier beer. She had been counting: two, so far. His consumption had really gone down in the year since the Barlow Connally shooting. She considered she might have something to do with that.

Walt tilted his head and looked up from his beer. "SITs?"

"Sheriffs in Training," she explained. "Prospective, of course."

"Of course," acknowledged Henry gravely.

The three of them sat ensconced in Walt's cabin after she had finally had the chance to prepare the very fine Lasagna Rustica attributed to her Uncle Alphonse's restaurant in Philadelpia. She had only made it once before, but the attempt had not been repeated since Walt's assault on Tensleep two years before, and she and Walt were having their very first dinner at the cabin with a guest as a…well, unofficial _couple_.

They were all sitting at a makeshift table she had cobbled together out of packing crates she had borrowed from the shed, the sturdy top over the assemblage an old door, all pieces scrubbed to within an inch of their lives specifically for the event. Although none of the chairs matched, she could care less. The tablecloth was red-checks, no doubt from some past picnic, and the late-season fresh wildflowers, courtesy of Walt, very much said _home._ She had originally thought to eat outside, but the robust Indian Summer had suddenly faded to a bleak wintry chill in that sudden seasonal change that was Wyoming. Warmth from the cheerful fire and a fat candle on the table dispersed that chill with a mellow glow.

She had of course asked Walt, before fresh-washing and using the tablecloth. She didn't want to dredge up any sad or unwelcome memories on her first attempt at entertaining in his home.

"So, what do you guys think? About the training, I mean." She tried to keep it light.

Both men responded to her query with raised eyebrows, before looking at each other, tilting their heads. They were thoughtful. Too much so, and she knew where that might lead, so she interrupted their contemplations

"Oh, c'mon, I'm from Philly…I'm tough, but I might need a bit of coaching to make it in the wilderness, and if you really want me to run in a few years, Walt, I may end up stranded in this county in fucking nowhere…You and Walt know these mountains, Henry, maybe I should at least get acquainted up close and personal?"

"It's not a bad idea," Walt finally allowed, and she wondered if somewhere in that head of his he were PTSD-ing his own experience as he pondered, including his infrequent mentions of spirit guides up in the mountains. She had withheld comment on said guides, but whatever had helped him survive, had brought him back to her, those, she thanked.

He went on, "We might as well work with her while we are both still spry enough to keep up…" He still rarely missed pointing out their age difference when with Henry. He would not speak to it in larger company, though. Say, with daughter Cady or the less senior deputies, and that did warm her heart.

She threw a pillow at him for even mentioning it, tactically and tactfully missing his Rainier, but his eyes lit with promise of retribution, the Longmire _Later_ in his eyes. Her eyebrows lifted in challenge. _We'll see how just old are you are_, indeed, _Later_. She had worked very hard to remove the 'O' word from his vocabulary, if not from his thoughts. How fortunate she was to be fluent in WaltSpeak, where he spoke his heart through his eyes. Those early years, that was all she had from him, and had somewhat learned to be his translator in crisis situations.

"No," agreed Henry, "it is not, since she is already learning to ride bareback and western with me, but after her 'hunting accident' with Omar a couple of years ago, she could certainly use some back country polish."

Unspoken there was that in an English saddle, she was a proficient jumper from her teenage years, but the sitting trot, latigo knots and riding without a saddle was still difficult for her.

"Walt already lets me help with Horse," she offered. She very much wanted to surpass the 'dude' phase if she were going to be a serious contender for sheriff whenever Walt decided he was through. Some days she thought it might be the next month, then next year, then maybe many years down the road. She knew he loved it, and probably needed it far more than she did at this juncture. It staved off the inevitability of the "R" word: Retirement, and being sheriff kept him from joining his former boss Lucian in that old-guy state. She liked that he was in no hurry. She herself was in no hurry. There was still time, still a lot to learn.

Well, except for her pesky biologic clock unexpectedly kicking in, and doing little checks here and there. Like, gotta make a decision here soon, no kids with the older guy, or to try for one or two. But that was a discussion involving Walt for _much_ later. Right now, they were barely a _couple._

"Well, even now, I doubt if I could keep up with either of you at altitude, or at orienteering," she admitted, returning to the here and now, "and I am a total washout at tracking. Also, if I were supposed to catch or hunt dinner, I can pretty much guarantee we'd end up hungry, and probably thirsty. And…I'd freeze in a heartbeat." She did not add that Walt had cheated death more than once in the wintry landscapes, despite growing up near the Bighorns. "I know Ferg has some of those skills, but…"

"But, he's young and still inexperienced. So, survival skills? Mmmph," Walt grunted. He took another sip of his Rainier, and his eyes narrowed.

She shrugged, then trimmed a sliver of lasagna from the baking dish and put it on her plate, before slicing it into small pieces.

"No lasagna rustica out there," said Henry agreed gravely, but there was a sparkle in his eye.

"Just think about it," she urged, chewing with relish. It brought back all _sorts_ of good memories and aromas from Uncle Alphonse's over the years, and her eyes closed in anticipation, because she knew Walt also liked watching her eat. He even assisted her here and there with that…but that might be for the _Later _promised in his eyes_._ And, she had planted the seed about the training. Let them see where they took it, what they made of it.

Vic knew that a year or so back Walt had helped out one of Mathias' female deputies to be a better law enforcement officer over a couple of weeks while she was training in Nebraska. At the time, she had bit her tongue. It was a noble thing to do on his part, but she thought there might have been an attraction of some sort. Once she even considered that it might be the uniform, and wondered if Walt had experienced the hots for any of his fellow female Marines umpteen years ago. Then again, Henry had mentioned the deputy once or twice since then, but she had bit her tongue on that, as well. That was between Henry and the deputy, or maybe between Walt and Henry.

Unproductive thoughts, because the look in Walt's eyes then had been and still was _only_ for _her, _and she came back to present just as Henry was saying, "I would be glad to teach her tracking if you will teach her survival in the cold. You might not appreciate me with her in the same sleeping bag."

The ruddy color on Walt's cheekbones betrayed his response to that, although he said nothing. She smiled inwardly.

"Wow, thanks, you two."

Walt's eyes came up to hers. "We both want you to succeed," but she could see the fear in his eyes. Fear that she one day might do something like he had done at Tensleep? Fear for her? Probably _yes_ to both.

She laid a hand over his, where it rested in his thigh and kept her eyes on his. "Thank you," she said, but her own eyes said to him, "_I want learn to survive, because I love you and don't ever want to leave you_."

Hopefully he was as proficient at VicSpeak as she was at WaltSpeak.

"Now, who is ready for Tiramisu?" she asked brightly and the evening continued as a great success.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Sorting**

Vic began to clear dishes after Henry formally thanked them for dinner, put on his coat and said his goodbyes. While Vic was preoccupied in the kitchen, he gave Walt _the eye_. Walt swung on his suede jacket which still bore the white stitching on the left shoulder thanks to his run-in with Chance Gilbert the year before, donned his hat, and together they sauntered out onto the porch. Henry leaned against a post in the brisk air. Walt stood impassively, arms crossed.

"Are you going to discuss it with her?" asked Henry without preamble. He did not specify _what._

"Yep."

"Are you going to explain why you have been keeping her out of the field whenever possible? She was at the Pony a few weeks ago crying into her beer about _office crap_. I edited that. You know the word she used. She is chafing at your restrictions, Walt. The larger investigation is in Federal hands, now. The danger to her has decreased dramatically."

"Yep." He was unsurprised by Henry's concern. She was more than competent to be out there alone, more than either Branch or Ferg, but ever since Chance's, and the unknown puppetmasters pulling Barlow's, Jacob's and Malachi's strings, he had found ways to keep her back, and into more in-house, often data-based investigations. She was good at them, but her forte had been and always would be in the field. It had been almost a year, and the investigation had been passed onto the Feds months ago. It was time for that discussion, more than time, really.

"And now she wants to learn survival techniques. That is bound to rub you wrong, Walt, if you are trying to keep her safe."

"Yep."

You can stop with the _yeps_—what are you going to _do_?

He shrugged. "We'll train her. I would rather we train her than lose her to the elements, or her lose a suspect because I didn't let her learn to survive and navigate in the wilderness. I don't think there's any question she's gonna run for sheriff. We've already talked about me resigning part way through next term, and then her running when my term's up."

"Then it is settled: I will continue to work with Vic on her horsemanship. I will also encourage her participation in a few tracking opportunities as they arise."

"Thanks, Henry. We'll look at our schedules—and the weather, and figure out some winter camping somewhere in all this."

"While her training is settled, what you will still not acknowledge is that while you want her to _succeed_, you still want to keep her _safe_."

Walt just gave a close-lipped smile.

Henry shook his head. "I stand by what I said almost a year ago. You are a lucky man, Walter Longmire, and I still want you or Vic to find me a woman who looks at me the way Vic looks at you. I want to be able to look at her the way you look at Vic."

That surprised him. Who but Henry had noticed how they looked at each other? The entire town? Walt just ducked his head and smiled. He was sure the looks between them that Henry referred to had existed well before either of them had been willing to acknowledge such things existed.

"Walt, you also need to admit _to her _that you no longer _want_ her to run for sheriff when you retire. I believe that is why you are procrastinating at setting a date. You need to tell her _that_."

He lifted his head and pursed his lips. Although that was not exactly true, Henry could always see through him. He blew out his breath in frustration. He had no ready answer to that.

"You _both_ need to have that discussion before you go any further with your lives."

He nodded, but he really did not want to have that conversation. Things were finally so _good_ between them at both home and for the most part, office. He didn't want to spoil things.

"Play for her, and then talk. She likes it when you play."

She did like it when he played piano man. A little Fats Waller, a little Gershwin, and she would relax in his arms. This time, he would have a guilty ulterior motive for playing. Unlike other times, he would not be playing from the heart as he usually did, before breaking a hornet's nest of truth open on her.

"I thought it went well," Vic said from the kitchen as he came back in, carefully hanging up his jacket and hat, and blowing on his hands. It had started sleeting just before Henry pulled away. The damp night promised worse weather before morning.

She looked absurdly young and fresh in candlelight—he had always thought women looked good in candlelight—and he regretted the necessity of spoiling the evening with the upcoming discussion. He thought about asking if she'd like him to play, but she took that decision out of his hands.

"So, are you going to tell me what you and Henry were so earnestly discussing out there? You were seriously serious for a bitchin' long time." Her voice was flirty, but her intent, _not._

He inhaled. It was time to broach it. No time to set her on his lap at the piano and warm her up to it, he just had to _say_ it.

"Come here," he said softly, drawing her from the kitchen, pulling her to him and down onto the sofa. She smiled quizzically, but let him put his arm around her, his chin on the top of her head.

"I have to confess to a few things."

He could feel her go wary, questioning, stiffening a little. Mental note: _Don't try that again. _Confessions were _never _a good way to broach anything with her.

"Not _those_ kind of things. It's not _that_ bad…"

He felt her waiting. She was good at that—with him, she had to be, it took him forever to stop dissembling if he started.

"Okay, it's like this: I've been keeping you back because I've been afraid."

"Back—you mean, at the station? Out of the field? Of course I've noticed it." She bit her lip. "Because…you're scared of what might happen? Like—I might get—_hurt_?"

"Yep.

"Like Chance's, attacked by Branch, punched in the nose, hit by a car, stuff like that?"

"Yep." He winced inwardly, remembering her taking punches from Lorna Dove, and then the one from _him. _He had tried to pull it mostly unsuccessfully, and later realized she had saved him that day from being arrested by her for assault on Jacob, who would most definitely have pressed charges.

"So, when I asked about survival training you panicked, _afraid_ that I'll freeze my toes and fingers off, or something?"

"Or something. And there's more."

She exhaled. "Oh, goody," she grimaced. _More_…? Fuck me, Walt, just _say _it."

"Nothing has changed for me. I—still want you to stay."

She exhaled again, and waited to draw him out. He appreciated that about her. She finally prompted softly, "_But_…?"

"_But,_ I'm afraid if you run for sheriff, you'll get hurt again." He closed his eyes, waiting for the explosion. When there was none, he chanced a glance at her. She was white, but, if he were fortunate, _thinking_.

"Oh."

She had to be disappointed, in him, in _everything_. So much investment in time in Durant, in her life, in _him_…and here he was blighting an enjoyable evening, and possibly a future life together.

"So," she said slowly, "I asked you after Barlow's shooting, and I'm asking you again now: is it the s_heriff _or the _man_ who wants me to stay?"

That time, he had taken off his badge so she understood it was _both_. That had not changed, but he needed to reassure her. "Both. Of course it's still both. And about your professional future, it isn't that I don't think you can do it—I know you will be a good sheriff. I'm just not sure I can stay there on the sidelines if there's a chance you might get hurt." He struggled to explain. "I just have to figure out—how to let you be _you_. Henry thinks I don't want you to run, but that's not really it. I am trying to convince myself not to run _against_ you, as your protector. So far, I'd say the odds are in your favor and you're winning."

She pulled away a little, looking into his eyes, trying to divine the real message. "So—you're not _telling_ me what to do, and you're admitting it _worries_ you, but…you'll let me _try_? You mean that?"

"Yep."

"More yeps."

"Yep. I know it's not right to keep you back like I have been, and I mean to let you do your job. I just wanted to let you know."

"Okay…?"

"And that brings me back to Henry. He and I are in agreement that we'd rather have you know what to do in a blizzard, stranded somewhere or tracking down a suspect than without training, either as a deputy _or_ sheriff."

"Okay! That's better than I thought —"

"And…" it just came out in a rush, "he wants you and me to find him a girl."

Vic snorted and burst out laughing. "A _girl, _I hope he said a _woman_—fuck that, he wants _us _to be his…Jeremiah Rains? To find a "willing girl from south of the border to ease that tension which is part of a man's daily life?"—or whatever his bullshit spiel was…"

He tamped down that thought immediately. Even the _notion_ made him wince. "Henry also thinks you and I should talk about our personal future-our future together."

_That_ sudden change of topic stopped the laughter, huffed out momentary silence, not what he had expected. Her eyes suddenly looked like wary amber splinters. She quickly pushed away and sat up straight. "_Henry _thinks that, but not _you_?Oh, whoa, not sure this is the time for that, Walt. I'm in no rush."

She didn't understand, yet, but Henry had. Henry knew he didn't like change, uncertainty, emptiness, sleeping alone, all hell for him, but Henry _also_ knew he had been through those hells for a long time preceding Martha's death. The cancer and its consequences had exacted tolls on both he and Martha well before she was taken. He tried to explain. As usual when trying to say anything to a woman, he stumbled.

"Ahhh…" He finally gave up and blurted out, "Vic, I don't want to be alone, anymore."

Her eyes were huge and bored into his. She opened her mouth to reply, even as the house phone began to ring shrilly. Insistently. It did not stop until his voice came on with a brief message—_no longer Martha's. _He saw her awareness as she realized the outgoing message had been altered. Her eyebrows raised in question, before he saw her go white around her mouth as the incoming message from Ruby began. Walt moved swiftly to intercept the call, and he knew she had suddenly figured out that the most likely reason for Ruby to ring so late at night was…a _body_.

Well, the timing sucked, but it was part of both of their professional and personal lives. It hadn't always been that way…


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**Genie Philly-Style**

_Okay, this story is *not* going as I commanded it…I think I need the genie from the following story to help me out here, but it at least seems like an interesting path. Please let me know what you think. I promise they will be getting back to Survival—but, is it survival in the wild, survival of their relationship, plain old survival from whoever has it out for them, or…all of the above? This chapter is set a few weeks after the S3E10 ATA shooting at Barlow Connally's ranch._

_P.S. I personally have experienced a Sheridan, WY soaphole and sat on cacti. HA!_

—_**Ten Months Ago—**_

The old chalkboard had appeared in the cabin's back storage room like magic. It was a bonafide mystery. One day the room had been empty and full of dust, the next morning as he carried his trash to the bear-proof can behind the back porch, the board filled it, and the room had been freshly swept. He hoped the mystery would be solved before the snow came in a couple of months, because he always wintered his tack back there. When he got home from the Pony that evening a floor lamp with a brass shade had joined the chalkboard, with a long extension cord running into the house. He idly wondered if he rubbed the lamp, the genie might appear and solve the mystery.

When he thought back, he knew he had been at the Pony for dinner and a few beers the last couple of evenings, so no one had been at the cabin when the magic had been happening. He really couldn't say anything to anyone without sounding crazy, but he had an idea who might have done it. He just had to wait until he could ask her. Unfortunately, that week he and Vic were on different shifts, so he didn't see her if he left right at the end of his shift.

Ruby's sharp eyes immediately noticed the missing board in his office when she brought in his post-its that same morning he had noticed the lamp. She had been off the day before, or he was sure he would have been informed about the absence sooner.

"I—took it home to repair. It wasn't in the best of shape."

"Uh-huh. Been taking it out on the office furniture again, Walt?"

"Uh, not recently. Maybe it was from before."

"Well, okay, then. Just remember that board is County property! We _could_ get someone out here to fix it, you know. Elmer Dixon, maybe. He's a pretty fair carpenter."

"Well, so am I. I'll have it back soon."

"Like your cabin was going to get finished four years ago?"

"Ruby, not today. I will return it in better shape than it left. All right?"

She reluctantly nodded and let it go. He hated to deceive her about anything, and most of the time, trying to pull one over on her didn't work at all. It was just, he wasn't sure why the chalkboard had done its magic appearing act, and until he did, he didn't want to discuss it with anyone.

He worked late, hoping to catch Vic coming in for night shift. The investigation into the machinations behind Barlow's actions was going nowhere. He was dawdling in his frustration as he heard her boots taking the stairs at a rapid clip—like he used to. Now it seemed every day was just trudge, trudge, trudge. He was never in a good mood when an investigation spun its wheels, and especially _this_ one. About a minute later, she filled his door.

"Oh, hey, Walt. I need to talk, if you've got a minute."

"Okay." He waved her in.

She shut the door behind her, came in and just stood there. _That_ was odd, usually she would pull a chair up to his desk and put her boots up on it, or at least sit on the couch.

"I don't know if you noticed…"

He let his eyebrows rise, urging her to continue.

"Um, the chalkboard isn't in here, anymore."

"Ruby brought my attention to it, earlier. The case of the missing chalkboard."

"Well, it's not missing. I took it out to your place."

"To my place."

"Yep." She could use words he used against him so well…

"Why?"

"Well, I don't know if you've made any progress on the conspiracy, you know, how Malachi was getting court pipelines, and if anyone was above Barlow and Jacob in the loop…and you sure haven't been sharing…"

"Not much."

"…well, I thought maybe we could try it full-out Philly-style and do a murder board. And then I thought, fuck, that won't work, because we don't know who is in on the conspiracy, and people are in and out of here all day."

"Okay…"

"So I thought, where could it go where no one but a few people knew about it, to add things, adjust, try to put a case together for the state D.A….?"

"And you came up with…"

"Your back room. Okay, I know I should have asked you first, but I wanted to take it at night while I was on shift, and I used the back entrance here and at your cabin. I didn't want _anyone_ to see me taking it."

"Vic, you sound paranoid."

"_Walt_—your wife was murdered_, _Henry imprisoned, Cady hurt—presumably all at the bidding of this group of people. How did Malachi know so soon when the court dates had changed? Why were they going to deny bail for Henry?"

He scowled. Those aspects and a dozen others _had_ bothered him, worrying at him like splinters under his skin. They still did from time to time, he was almost just numb from it all.

"How did Barlow and Jacob dream up the idea of killing Martha? Barlow executed, pardon the pun, but Jacob had to be in on it to take the money for Ridges."

He knew his scowl had turned thunderous. It always did when Martha's name was used in any sentence involving those two men.

"Okay," he said, trying to direct back to the main issue, trying to keep the darkness from the edge of his vision.

"Walt, you are just too close to this…you probably shouldn't be on it except you see things when none of the rest of us do, so you _have_ to be on it."

He met her eyes at that, but she continued.

"Well, we are not set up to be techie, so we plain and simple do a murder board. We base it at your place, and when we have all the evidence in hand, make the connections, we put all the documents and links on a flash drive and turn it into the D.A. We may not be able to get all the records we want ourselves, but if we give them enough to get involved, get them _tempted—_something which is so compelling even _they_ can't ignore—well, they might even bring the Big Guns in, and _they_ can get anything we don't find. We just have to establish the links and enough evidence to get them poking around."

Big Guns was the ASD code for the Feds. Big Guns could take years to complete an investigation. It wasn't what he wanted, but he knew that with a conspiracy at that level, he probably didn't have the resources to complete that extensive an investigation. Hell, who was he kidding? He didn't have a _tenth_ of the resources needed.

She went on, "…at least it will be out of our hands and we can go back to being ASD, rescuing cows caught in soap holes and stranded hikers who sit on cacti and the like."

Those two events _had_ occurred on shifts the week before, and he tried to suppress a quick grin. It pulled him from the blackness, as she always managed to, it was a neat hat trick but no one could ever quite explain how she did it. Maybe it also fit the genie persona.

"Okay, then. You're lead on this. What next?"

"Well, we decide who to include in making the murder board."

"Ferg?"

"I think so, he can at least be researching when we need it. I'm not sure where Branch's head is, now. I know he said some things when we found him with Barlow, but those could probably be knocked out in a court of law, and I'm just not sure how rational he is, yet. Plus, with Branch's Bad Boy stuff since his shooting, the court might not believe him. Since Barlow's still alive, we need to find concrete proof behind everything, because Branch may be protecting him for some reason. Nobody's talking, so we go paper trail and follow the money."

"Branch may be protecting family, like Lucian, or his mother, from the fall-out."

"That could be. In any event, I think we have to keep our cards close to the vest. When time comes, I'll put it on several flash drives. One should go with all the original documents in the bank box—that only one of _us_ can open. That way, if something happens…" She tilted her head and shrugged.

He stared at her. She really _had_ thought this out, but the implications of that chilled him.

"That's because we don't know where this will lead," she said, sounding completely reasonable, but she was also the one who had taken the chalk board at night and used back entrances.

"The lamp…"

She smiled. We'll be working nights when we are both off duty."

He sighed. His mood was still dark, but much lighter with a plan more extensive than the simple vengeance he had intended, and with the prospect of more Terror Time. Neither of them had mentioned his plans regarding Jacob Nighthorse since the day of the Barlow Connally ranch shooting, nor had they addressed him asking her to stay. It was like they were at an impasse, a limbo of their own making. If they could get this investigation into _some_ element of motion, maybe those two topics could eventually be addressed.

"Okay, then. Monday night we begin."

She gave a sour smile. "Feel free to tack something up there beforehand if the urge hits."

He wanted to tack up Jacob's picture, but then, if the urge _really_ hit_,_ the board would _truly _require repair before construction of the murder board even began.

He also wondered what full-out 'Philly-style' would entail.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**Ruby's Niece and the Murder Board**

—_**Eight Months Ago**_**—**

The weather was so lousy, Vic hoped everyone would stay home and leave them cozy and catching up on paperwork in the station. She clomped in and pulled off her gloves with her teeth so she could remove her boots, although she had initially shaken snow off before entering. She unzipped, unbuttoned, and yanked her knit cap off with relish, leaving her with the inevitable hat-hair.

The sheriff's office never took a day off, even in a blizzard. People still committed crimes or needed help, it seemed, _especially _in blizzards, as they apparently completely lost the ability to drive competently once the first flake of snow fell. The early call had been a traffic accident 20 miles outside town, and she was just getting back at 9 am, ready for, at the _bare minimum,_ hot coffee and dry socks.

She and Walt had worked late into the evening on the murder board the night before, and she still wasn't fully awake, even after coffee and a brisk highway accident-scene. The night on the cot at the station hadn't helped. When the snow had kicked in, Walt had offered his place to crash, but she really wasn't in the mood…she was in a _not quite _mood as raw as the weather. Not quite divorced, not quite done with the investigation, not quite ready to hash out the issues between them, she had yawned her way back to the station and slept fitfully.

"Mail for you," announced Ruby, and handed her an assortment, including a manila envelope. Vic pursed her lips at that one. The only mail like that she had received recently had been from Sean, or she should say, Sean's _attorney._ The divorce had been delayed _ad infinitum_ by minor financial things which could have been signed off on in a few minutes had he still been in the U.S. She figured he was just sticking it to her by putting her life on hold until the last minutiae had been signed off on in _two_ countries.

"Thanks Ruby," dropped the mail on her desk, and filled her Eagles mug. She warmed her hands and blew on it in preparation to adding the requisite milk and sugar. "Where is everybody, anyway? I thought I was out on the only call."

"Ferg is helping his dad weatherproofing a job site, today. Branch is at a therapy appointment. Walt was in earlier, but went over to the Bee about a half hour ago."

With Branch back part-time and pinch-hitting on dispatch, Ferg still had more duties and responsibilities on his plate. She and Walt had also occasionally thrown some of research into the Big Investigation his way. He was taking his new precedence seriously, but she understood his devotion to family. She had hers, back in Philly, and maybe, if she were _very_ lucky_, _another one here in Durant, someday. She understood.

"Oh, okay, then," she said, dumping and stirring until she had achieved a satisfactory mixture of coffee in her milk and sugar.

"I'm going to be leaving in a few minutes to help my granddaughter with her wedding plans."

Vic felt like she should _know_ about this. Ruby had a _granddaughter_ old enough to get married? Had Ruby told her about this and she somehow zoned out with all the brain static from her beating at the Gilbert compound, and then Sean's defection from the marriage? Some days she still wasn't sure she had made a complete recovery from either.

"So when's the big day, again?"

"In June, when else?—after the blizzards stop."

"Right. Which granddaughter?"

"Vic, my _only_ granddaughter. Janine. Works at Durant Memorial? I'm _sure _you've met her before, you're over there so much on cases, and I _know_ I told you she got engaged to John Hopper back at Christmas."

She winced, Ruby sounded _so _disappointed in her.

"I'm sorry, Ruby. My mind is not where it should be, lately. Divorce…" Vic eyed the envelope, flipping it with her finger.

"Ohhh. More hold-ups?"

"I don't know," she said honestly, and hoped the worry wasn't in her voice. "Maybe I'll be able to answer better after I read this."

"Okay," said Ruby firmly. "You read your mail and I'll head out in a few minutes to help Janine. It's the 27th, if you want to add it to your calendar, now."

"Ah. June 27th. I will. Are there invites?"

"There will be. That's what I'm going to help with, today." She added, almost slyly, her voice ending on a high, questioning note, "Plus-ones will be welcome."

She shook her head _no _and made a face at Ruby over that, but Ruby persisted.

"So maybe not a plus-one, but…did you find a place, yet?"

"No. Well, I'll amend that, yes, but there's not much out there on a deputy's salary. I'd need a room-mate."

Evidently she was _really_ disappointing Ruby, now. The dispatcher's mouth pursed.

"So, should we just use your old address for the invitation, and forward it?"

She clacked her tongue. "Uh, no. There are new tenants, and it might never get to me at that rate. Just send anything here."

"Here."

"Yeah, the station."

"You want me to send you a wedding invitation to the jail."

Vic exhaled, the suspense of what was in the envelope was killing her, and just below it was another one she saw from over at the courthouse. What _now_? She hadn't been kidding, her mind really was _not_ on what Ruby was saying.

"Whatever you and—Janine—think. She's always been so nice to us at the hospital." _There_. The young woman who had given her the manila envelope Gorski had left. At least she placed Janine, and she was pretty sure the last name was Reynolds, like Ruby's. "Please. Send Janine my congratulations. Oh, and hand-deliver it, if you want, don't worry about an address."

"Will do," said Ruby, mollified, as she grabbed a stack of what appeared to be the invitations, including a legal tablet covered with an intimidating list, and the inevitable Signature Ruby post-it notes.

"Wait," said Vic, as she felt her wet socks squishing on the wet floor. It was more than time to change to the dry socks in her desk. "Let's get a bag to protect those. It's _wet_ out there." She found one of the waste can trash bags and helped Ruby get the invitations inside. "I'm sorry, Ruby. I _will_ do better."

Ruby patted her arm and began to perform the button, zip, boot-tugging and insulation required for a trip back into the weather. "I know you will, Vic. Divorces are sapping. It should all be over soon and only get better from here."

The office phone rang, and Vic shooed Ruby toward the elements. Resigned, she answered the phone. She _really_ didn't want to go back out right away. Her coffee wasn't even cold, yet.

"Absaroka County Sheriff's Department."

"Vic? Glad you made it back safe."

"Oh, hi, Walt. What's the special, today?"

"French toast, want me to bring you an order? But I need to talk to Ruby."

"Yes to toast, no to Ruby. She just left. She'll be at Janine's."

"Okay, so no French toast for her. Do you have Janine's number?"

She flipped through Ruby's Rolodex and read it off to Walt. Sometimes Branch produced good ideas, like a numbers database to store on all their phones. It was time to update the department, even little by little, but it was not in place today. "And thanks for the French toast," she added. "It's filthy out there on the 16, I don't want to go out again unless there's a body."

"And I sure don't want any bodies. I'll wait on your order, back soon."

"I know."

She plunked down the phone as so ended another completely passionless exchange. It had been absurdly possible to pretend there was nothing between them, ever since the Barlow Connally fiasco. Anything personal had been put on hold until the investigation could be completed. Sometimes she had to ask herself if it had really happened, being held in Walt's arms in the examining room, and his eyes as he had asked her to stay while she read through her divorce papers, or whether she had just imagined it all.

Then she would remember how he had been willing to sacrifice his life at Chance's compound, had protected her from Branch, from knowledge of his wife's death, and before that, from Gorski's stalking, and she thought she _almost_ understood.

She thought how _right_ and pride-of-place it felt, cleaning his ear after he had returned from the David Ridges ambush. Well, that day at the Pony at least Cady and Henry _must have_ suspected something afoot, but Walt had never commented on it or given a sign. At the time, she had thought he had been on the verge of kissing her right there at the bar, with her face in his, but feathers—even _one _feather, if you could believe it, had been enough to distract him completely, to take his solo act down to Denver, excluding her. She sighed. She _did, almost_ understand. It had dogged his actions ever since she met him, so no surprise that it still weighed heavy and was something he felt compelled to finish before anything else intruded.

_Almost_ understanding also included figuring out that he would not say or do anything which might put her at risk until the larger investigation, the one over-arching the Connally shooting, was complete. That _anything_ included starting a relationship which might be used as leverage to weaken him, by hurting her as Martha, Cady, Henry and even Branch had been in the past. Together, over several weeks, they had finally figured it out, that the interactions between Barlow and Jacob had been ordered by three judges and yet nameless higher-up, possibly from his past. What he hadn't figured out yet was who the exact higher ups, singular or plural _were_, yet, or if _he_ had…he wasn't sharing with her. He was on the track, though. With Walt, that was sometimes enough.

And not a patient soul, she had to admit that the investigation was taking so _fucking long…_At one point, one evening a couple of weeks ago while they were both perusing the murder board at his place over Rainiers, she had snapped.

"I still don't fucking get it!" she exclaimed. "We're missing something."

"Probably several _somethings_," he admitted. "We need links here, here, and," he gestured, "_here_.

"We need the financials, at least of those judges."

"We don't have enough yet to ask for them."

"So, let's not _ask._" Her eyes bored into his.

"You're suggesting…"

"There's something in the financials of each of those judges that have to be the link. Three different judges, three different counties, all doing business with Jacob and/or Barlow."

"That in itself is pretty unusual, but not damning. The business transactions don't show anything unusual."

"So, it's not just _business_. There's something else there, something which doesn't show in the first go-round. Where else could casino money from investors be laundered?"

Walt did the Stubble Rub. That's what she had dubbed it, when he was in Deep Thinking Mode.

"Those men are all in their late 40s or early 50s." He was flipping through his notes from their biographies. "They all have children."

"Children—as in older children, young adults."

"Yep, as in—when Cady was 16, I suddenly wondered how we were going to pay for her college. I had always thought we'd sell the Powder Junction Ranch…"

"You had a ranch in Powder Junction?" That surprised her. Of course, she didn't know much about his finances or holdings, but she had assumed during the course of Henry's trial-to-be that it was not much. It was not her business, and she would not ask.

"Still do—my parents' ranch. I inherited it when they died, but I was sheriffing up here, and I couldn't work it. It was paid off, so I thought I'd refinance it, and I did. It paid for college—but not law school. I rent it out to a family down there."

She didn't say anything. There were memories in his eyes. Let him tell it his way.

"We bought this land outright, but after Cady decided to go to law school, Martha and I were already building here, so, I took a mortgage on this acreage, with the anticipated improvement of a home. It was tough for a while, paying two mortgages and building this property. Even after the first one was paid off, it's one reason this house is so modest, because it took a while to pay this one off, too…I've been taking most of my salary for payments. I just made the last payment on the loan last month. I'm not a bit sorry, because Cady's education came first, and I'm not leaving her with any bills to clean up after me."

"Oh. I didn't know…" She thought of all the times she had disparaged his modest, unfinished cabin, and suddenly felt leaden inside. There was such a thing as being too snarky.

"But…" he continued, "If these men have college-age children, there might be funds with _their _social security numbers that we can't see, even from a cursory financial viewpoint. Maybe that's where the laundering is, one level back. Sounds like a Malachi twist on the financials of Barlow and Jacob. Maybe we need to look at the socials of the _children_."

That had been two weeks ago. A recent _source_ which Walt had not divulged, had provided plenty of ammo. All three judges had multiple education accounts for _each child_, and mysterious payments funneled into the accounts each month from an anonymous source. _All three had the same anonymous source._ Bingo! Another tidbit…Cady's lawyer friend _had _to be implicated, because he was evidently sending the money to the Caimans and then back to those accounts. Talk about double-laundering! Walt was about fit to be tied, but he had said he couldn't say a thing until the investigation was wrapped up and sent out, except maybe caution Cady to be careful who she dealt with. More than ever, Vic was just glad they hadn't told Ruby—who could keep a secret, but through whom an innocent comment might have destroyed the investigation—or Cady.

So they were getting close, but as of yet, neither of them had talked about themselves, or the vendetta attempt on Jacob. After Walt had broken the case, she bit her tongue and resolved to wait. It was why he had been on it, after all, to find justice for Martha. Let that at least go to the state, if not along to the Feds, and they both would be well out of it.

Yes, she could still wait and be one of the boys, but really, _really_—they were, the both of them, not getting any younger. If he wanted a relationship with her, or heaven forbid, even _consider_ a family_, _they needed to start talking—well, more than _that—_pretty soon. But she shook off those thoughts; they were blizzard thoughts, something unproductive because she had too much time on her hands. The two of them needed to maintain the professional and impersonal relationship they had displayed for more than three years, even while the true nature of it had morphed into something different, simmering just beneath the surface, even if neither would or could yet acknowledge it.

Her eyes were drawn back to the two envelopes.

And suddenly, _fervently_,despite the weather, she wished there _were _a body, so they could be working together in the field as a team, taking her mind off…everything else.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**D-Day at the Red Pony**

**(Or)**

**Night Errant**

_**Author's Note: Uh-oh, this story is slowing down into some detail, way beyond my intent, you see, it is drawing me with it, draggggggging me behind…**_

—**Yep, **_**Still Eight Months Ago**_**—**

So, it was D-Day. Well, her personal one, more precisely: Divorce Day. No one had asked and she had told no one. When Ruby had returned to the office, the conversations had not returned to her envelopes, and Walt had occupied his dispatcher with a flurry of assignments. The weather was cooperating in only way Wyoming could. The snow had stopped dumping, the roads were cleared, but it was _still _fucking cold.

To be fair, Walt had asked after divorce a few times over the last two months, before apparently losing interest in the seemingly endless process, even as they slogged over the murder board together in the evenings. She knew without asking that the board had taken his focus. Now that it seemed on the cusp of a total breakthrough, she had seized upon that with a tiny bit of optimism that her divorce could not be far behind.

Sean had managed to drag out a really simple divorce by virtue of doing it from Australia (what ever happened to airmail—faxes—_email?)_ Nope, everything was manila envelopes from a law office in _Australia_, not even using his Newett Energy buddies stateside.

But earlier in the afternoon, she had received dueling manila envelopes from _both_ countries, announcing the termination of her marriage in succinct fashion—everything right-and-tight, keeping her Moretti maiden name and today's date. She idly wondered what _time_ of day the divorce was actually _final, _hoping Sean wouldn't stage a messy 11:59 pm drama of wanting to reconcile, but that seemed like a pretty remote possibility.

Vic sighed, because whenever the Records department at the Durant County Courthouse recorded the divorce, and if the clerk recording it happened to be Barb, Omar's sister with the married name she could never remember, it was probably about 3 minutes from being heard around the far reaches of the state of Wyoming. That meant that of all people, _Omar_ would likely be gifted with the delicious tidbit that she was finally free, no rings or legalities to worry about on his end, anymore. It also meant that any other man under 70 might try to stake his personal claim as well.

She sighed again. She _wished_ she were being narcissistic, but there just weren't that many young, single, professional women in the Durant area.

Omar's possible participation only brought _another_ consideration. She _thought_ Walt had asked her to stay on as more than his Undersheriff, but they had not yet discussed their personal feelings. He had never made clear whether her staying was more than a job decision, but she remembered how he had held her at the hospital, and how intense his eyes had been when he asked her to stay. She would swear she was not hallucinating over that, and yet, it seemed like a distant and misty memory because both of those events had happened around the time of her concussion.

Which brought her back to: was it time to announce her freedom, or did she have to go to Sheridan or further to whoop it up and prevent any awkwardness with the locals? Worse, did she _want_ to whoop it up?

Her cell phone rang. Caller ID said it was Cady. They had become closer during Cady's issues with Branch, and although she'd seen her in passing a few times, she hadn't heard from her in months.

"So, I hear you're a free woman." _Damn, _Barb _had_ been too efficient over at the courthouse.

"Well, from a legal standpoint," she said hesitantly, uncertain where the conversation was going. "I'm still at work."

"How about you and I go the Pony and have a few tonight? I thought you might need an ear. We can be girls and wear dresses, and I'll be your designated driver."

That was an unexpectedly thoughtful offer. It also might head off the Omars of Durant, to have a Wing-Woman. _Were_ there such things?

"Well…sure, that does sound kind of good, no pressure and all."

"I thought so. I know—Barb is such a _blabbermouth_. I was filing a motion today, and she asked me if you were seeing anyone, yet, now that you were free."

She grimaced. Yeah, pretty much as she had envisioned. "Did you set her straight, the answer is: No, I'm not, and that thanks to my Ex's generous financial settlement, I'm living at the jail? That should bring on the guys!" There should have been at least one f— in there, but she always tried to moderate her cussing around Walt's daughter, who was just calling to be kind. Why she tried for Cady, she was never sure. Cady wasn't a child, but she usually reserved her shock-talk language for guys who needed a reminder from The Terror, and Walt always seemed either immune or amused by it.

"No, not really, it wasn't any of her business, was it?"

No wonder the woman was a lawyer. Put in her place, she answered in a small voice. "No."

"So, do you want me to pick you up at the station, about seven-ish? I'll buy and drive."

She huffed, defeated. It _did_ sound good. "Okay." She would just have to dig out her dresses and shoes from the box downstairs, in the old file room near the shower room, and see if anything was wearable. They weren't something she needed every week or even every _month_, working in Absaroka County.

At exactly 5:01 pm she said goodnight to Ruby, but didn't poke her head into Walt's office; she knew he was still on the phone with someone at the state level about the conspiracy investigation, and she didn't want to interrupt. She figured Ruby would fill him in at some point after Barb's phone tree got around to her, but since Walt hadn't asked after the state of her divorce in a while, nor had they had any personal conversations, it might not even come up. He might have lost interest. So, was she or was she _not_ free, now? The law might say one thing, her heart another, but she was not going to push. If it were going to happen, it would happen—in time.

Cady looked very pretty in a print dress with a shrug under her winter coat and boots, in deference to the nasty weather, while she had defaulted to a little black dress which would have looked better in downtown Philly than in Rustic, Wyoming, but she hadn't bought much in the last three years, and fortunately, it still looked somewhat in style. The three inch heels were maybe a bit much for the Pony, and she hoped she didn't put a stiletto through a floorboard and snap it off, breaking an ankle in the process, or slip and fall in the parking lot. As opposed to a shrug, she had her leather jacket with her. She had her hair down and even wore fucking _earrings_. All-out for a place like the Pony, but in reality, once she got back outside, she would just _freeze._ The parking lot had been scraped to within an inch of snow-over-ice (probably in reaction to potential lawsuits) so her heels didn't have to work too hard to enter the Pony.

Henry wasn't around when they arrived, he was probably doing a dozen different owner-errands before the evening rush. Along the way, she had picked up that he owned some rentals, other business interests, and probably much more than his financials for the court had indicated, even if his cash-at-hand had been limited during his incarceration. She knew there was far more to Henry than the face he presented to customers. He just didn't advertise it.

She had asked him recently if any of his rentals would be soon available on say, a deputy's salary, Undersheriff or not. He had kind of put her off, saying that he would let her know if anything suitable came up. When he had never mentioned anything further, she decided the rental market in Durant was either more profitable than her measly salary could handle, or inventory was worse off than she had thought.

Cady tried to put her at ease with small talk with a story about a paralegal who had gotten an adoption and divorce file mixed up with each other. It was more sad than funny, really. The people in question must have been horrified. At least, _she_ would have been horrified.

"Okay," said Cady as they sat down at the bar, "what shall we order?"

Well, that was a good question. She didn't want to get plastered, nor did she want to think very much tonight.

"I guess—Cady," she started, but her heart just wasn't in it. "I dunno, maybe this was a mistake."

"No!" said Cady in bracing tones, "we'll just start easy. Two glasses of Henry's good red wine, Knife."

Knife Words could be model for one of the Sioux of the mid 1800s, inscrutable and solid. He was one of Henry's most recent protégé bartenders, working his way through culinary school in Sheridan days (she found that hard to imagine, but hospitality had become a thriving industry in the state) and tending bar most nights. Henry went through bartenders at an alarming rate. Word was, he taught them so well and to be so proficient, they almost always started their own businesses after leaving him, using his as a model.

Knife placed two glasses before them. Cady sniffed and sighed in appreciation, before taking a sip. "Henry sure knows his way around the reds."

Vic instinctively wanted to gulp the whole thing down and begin a road to oblivion, but settled for a sip. It actually _was_ good. She put the glass back down. Maybe she wasn't trying to go down that road as fast as she had thought.

"So, how are things at the station?" Cady asked, and Vic did not feel it was like prying in any way, just a pleasant curiosity.

"Better," she replied cautiously. "We're working more as a team on the complex investigations." She just couldn't talk about _any _investigations with Cady, especially the murder board one, or admit that Walt and she had some future discussions to make as to his future, her future, or even possibly _their_ future. It had just not been the time to discuss such things. With the rate they were going, she thought morosely, it might _never_ be that time.

Actually, the thing she absolutely could _not _say anything about to Cady, the young lawyer who had helped her defend Henry had suddenly popped up on the murder board's radar the night before. It was too soon to exactly determine his involvement, and she could say nothing, nor warn Cady, yet. That would have to be Walt's purview. His call.

The stool on her left squeaked, a blast of aftershave enveloped her, and when she turned, there, unsurprisingly, was Omar. It was _not_ her lucky day. She had hoped against hope that she had heard right last week and that he was guiding a bunch of high-paying dudes into the back country while growing back his Grizzly Adams beard now that hunting season had started. That he was clean-shaven spoke volumes.

"No ring, Vickie. No husband, either. Could it be my lucky day!?"

That was so in opposition to her thoughts, that she gave a half-hearted smile and took the long draught of her wine that she had first intended. It did go down easy and definitely mellowed things out.

"Good evening, Omar!" said Henry, coming from out of the kitchen like a welcome apparition. "What can we get for you, tonight?" he asked, refilling their glasses with the same red.

"Well, let's see. I'll start with one of those fancy beers, the hoppy ones I go for, and work my way into a steak. You know how just how I like 'em, rare with the garlic butter? Spud with the fixins. What are you having, Vickie?"

Vic shook her head, but she had to admit Cady threw herself into the fray in Wing-Woman fashion before the Vic who was holding back and slightly fuzzed with wine could tell him to _fuck off_.

"Hi, Uncle Omar, I thought you were up above Crazy Woman Canyon this week?"

Cady's voice seemed to startle Omar. It appeared he had just realized it was Cady sitting next to her. "Oh, just got back from taking out that California group. They got wet and came back early. Bunch of sissies."

Henry produced ice water for all three of them, and disappeared into the kitchen again.

"Ah," Cady replied. Vic, still trying to control her tongue, did not.

"So, Vickie," Omar tried again, all cheerful and bluff. It wasn't that she _didn't _like Omar, it was more that she didn't like him _like that. _Vic remembered the thick sheaf on Omar, mostly domestic disturbance incidents, all the charges against him pressed by his _wife_. She also remembered Walt saying Omar claimed to still love his wife but acknowledged they could and should never live together again. "Stop kiddin' around. What can I get you, tonight?"

"Nothing, Omar," she said, desperately trying to be polite and not explode, when out of the corner of her eye, Walt pushed through the swinging saloon doors, with his familiar purposeful stride. He came over to where she and Cady sat at the bar, hands at his personal parade rest, one hand over his Colt, the other on his cuffs, and she thought, _he is really tired, tonight_, because his right foot was dragging a little the whole way.

She suspected he had stared at the Murder Board for at least a couple more hours after she had left the night before. She wished she could hold him so she could make sure he actually got some sleep, so he would not be so tired. What an absurd thought for a finally-free, dressed-to-nines female celebrating at the local watering hole.

"Hi, Punk, Vic, Omar," he said, as Henry appeared again and automatically put a Rainier in front of him, which Walt waved away. "No, sorry, Henry, I'm here on Sheriff Business." Vic thought he looked more like he was on, "_I'm going to punch your lights out, Omar, business_."

"Aw, Walt, what do you need, now?" Omar sounded resigned, as though he would be expected to perform a munitions miracle that very moment.

"Nothing tonight, Omar," and Vic silently amended, _yet. _If it were a case, they might. A stray but piquant thought occurred, if Walt punched Omar, she might have to arrest _him_. Oh, the irony, to arrest the Sheriff. She had suddenly lost the train of the conversation, no doubt, it was the wine…

"Vic, we need to pick up a female prisoner over at Tri-County. Your bag's in my truck."

She started. He was _on duty_? She would swear the duty roster had Ferg's name on it for tonight…

"You can change here if you want." She scowled. The pieces did not fit. What had Walt always sad? Follow the evidence? Her bag with her uniform shirt and badge had been at the station when she left. And _she_ was not even on call…

"My gun and boots weren't in the bag, and are still at the station," she said, "and I've had a glass of wine…" And then she caught Henry's raised eyebrows. "Uh, two." No prevaricating, there.

"Well, I'm driving, so let's get going. Cady…"

"Not a problem. I'm buying, remember? You two crazy kids go have some sheriffin' fun with your prisoner."

Vic grimaced. "The perfect ending to the perfect evening."

Omar sputtered. "Isn't _she_ off duty? "

"No, on call. Comin', Vic?" he asked, turning on his heel, but allowing her to precede him.

Of course she was, and she led him out, but her heels gave her an advantage in height she didn't usually have. It was a different and kind of lofty feeling, when she turned her head, looking more or less _across_ instead of up to him. She also moved differently than in boots, and wondered if he even noticed, or how her hair rippled when it was loose, how her dress kind of floated around her legs. If so, he said nothing, just silently followed her out.

As she threw her jacket around her shoulders against the evening's potential frostbite, she said, "I am pretty sure I'm not on call, and you sure know how to fucking kill an evening," she paused, "but—_thank_ _you_. There are only so many ways I can say _no_ to Omar."

He put his head down and made a somewhat suspect noise as they got to the Bullet. She jumped in to her habitual shot-gun position, somewhat impeded by her heels, and fastened her seat belt.

"What? I'll need my boots and gun, can change at the station, give me 10 minutes…"

"You don't have to change, Vic. I kinda like the dress. And the shoes. You look beautiful."

_That_ stopped her. "What are you _saying_? Don't we have to get going—?"

He gave her a speaking look.

"Oh!—So, no prisoner, no Tri-County…?"

He shrugged.

"Why, you devil, you," she said as the glow from the wine receded. "So, Walter Longmire, dissembling? Are you always going to play the fucking knight errant for me? First Chance, then Branch, now Omar?"

The blue eyes suddenly turned on her, intense cobalt even in the mellow cab light. A moment passed. "I'd…kinda like to try."

That stopped her. She took a breath. Two. She still didn't have enough breath.

"Oh."

"Why didn't you tell me earlier that it was final today?" he asked softly. His voice wasn't so much gravel, now, more like baby-fine sandpaper.

"Oh. Well, you were busy when I was leaving, and Cady called and asked me to go out tonight. She heard it from Barb at Records…"

He winced. "So did Ruby, who eventually told me."

"Around the county in 90 seconds," she said bitterly.

He jerked his head in agreement. "More or less."

"Well, just take me back to the station. It's my final destination, anyway."

He turned his head in surprise. "The station?"

"Yeah. House changed hands last week." She hesitated. "I'm surprised Ruby didn't mention _that_."

"Me, too. Maybe she didn't know, or it hadn't gone through, yet? I thought…maybe you would need a place...never mind. So, where is all your house stuff?"

"Well, spread between the file room we cleared out last year, and a small storage locker west of town."

Silence. How had she rendered him speechless? Oh, that's right, it was _Walt, _who often enough didn't use words in his communications. She noted that he had turned right instead of left, and twisted her lips. The cold air still pouring from the vents was clearing most of the residual wine haze from her. Hopefully the heat would kick in _soon._

"The station is the other way," she pointed out helpfully, in case he had thought his way past the intersection.

He took a deep breath. "How would you like to celebrate your divorce? I mean, really celebrate. I know you didn't want to with Omar, or even probably Cady."

She glared at him. "It was very sweet of Cady to offer to pay for drinks and our evening. She knows I've been kind of down, lately."

His mouth worked, like he was chewing on a thought but actually chewed on his lips.

"I wondered. You didn't say anything."

"Wasn't your problem," she said, looking anywhere but him. It wasn't. He hadn't blown up her marriage, not really, despite Sean's assertions and snide remarks along the way. Sean and she had been having problems even before Durant. "Besides, we've been working the Murder Board pretty hard, I know you've been concentrating on that."

"So, then, Sheridan, so nobody has to know we aren't at Tri-County? I could buy you dinner."

It was an appealing idea, but the wrong way to ask, pinch-hitting as Plan B after a disastrous evening.

"No," she said, trying to plow through without hurting him, "thank you, but I think I'd just rather go back to the station."

His head swiveled around as though surprised, hurt, worse, maybe…_rejected_. Well, she hadn't meant _that._ She tried to repair the damage. Really, sometimes the big, tough guy was so _vulnerable._

"Ask me again some other time, Walt, and I promise to say yes," she said, closing her eyes, "It's been a shitty week overall with the house, the storm and the divorce, and I just had to fend off Omar."

"What about just a cup of coffee, then, or something more, at the truck stop?" It was half-way to Sheridan, but a lot closer.

She considered. Food _did_ sound appealing. "Well, I _am_ starved, and if you really have my bag, I have sneakers and jeans in it, just not my duty boots. I can change…"

"We're supposed to be headed over to Tri-County, so maybe it's good we're heading out of town in case Omar asks later."

"_Fuck_ Omar. I'm just _hungry_. Cady and I never even got to order dinner."

"Okay, then." He slowed the truck to turn around again.

"Wait!" she said, laying her hand on his bicep. "Where were you headed?"

"My place," he said sheepishly. "To the Murder Board. On autopilot, I guess. We're so _close_."

She thought of the tangle of yarn, string, construction paper, photos, and numbers tying to pertinent documents. The Caiman Islands appeared to be only the tip of the iceberg. Still, the murder board looked something very like the US highway system gone bad, but she knew in her heart they _were_ very close.

She stared at him. He caught her gaze. He stopped the truck. He looked straight ahead, not at her, and seemed to be struggling.

"What should we _do_, Vic?" His eyes were pleading _tell me. _Not, _I love you_, not a _personal "I want you to stay," _just lobbing it into her court for a return volley. He wanted her to guide the conversation, if not the evening.

She swallowed, not ready for such weighty questions. Instead, she bit her lip and tried for a light touch. "I'm too tipsy to think, yet, so definitely coffee," she said firmly, and as her stomach rumbled, she laid a hand across it, "and food. The truck stop will do nicely. I can change in back before we go in."

But she knew that wasn't the answer to the question he had asked.

What the _hell_ was wrong with _both_ of them?


	6. Chapter 6

**Survival**

**Chapter 6**

**Murder Board Redux**

_**Okay, so this is a transition chapter before coming back to the relationship…It was brought to my attention via PM that I really gave the Murder Board short shrift in prior chapters. It's only my speculative take on the plotline thus far, so don't ask me, these are only ideas for one version that might happen. I also don't know*anything* about how 4**__**th**__** season is progressing, except Tony Tost said in his most recent tweet that there will be a lot of "history" in it. I don't own anything, lowly fan writer, etc. etc.**_

—_**Seven Months Ago—**_

It had been almost a month since her divorce had been final, and almost every night since then she and Walt had sat on folding chairs there in the storage room at the back of his cabin and tried to piece together the huge pile of data damning a small group of greedy and unprincipled men. At least, so far, they were _all _men, except for the tiny stooge part Deena had played for Malachi via Darius.

A packing crate became their worktable housing the unruly mess of information which they doggedly kept linking with the board. A lot of it was extraneous paper, but some of the juicier nuggets were downright head-on incriminating.

Sometimes Ferg would join them for part of an evening, or bring them new information to add to the pile. She thought he mostly enjoyed just being _included_, allowed to express his two cents, and make occasional contributions. He made some good points along the way that they were overlooking, or just too fatigued to see. They had just sent him home to get some sleep an hour before, because he was on duty in the morning, but Vic was convinced his mood and his energy had finally turned away from the negative emanations which had seemed like the entire last year.

"Where the _fuck_ did you manage to _find_ all this?" Vic had asked Walt once six weeks ago, after the investigation had suddenly taken off as the pile grew. It was approaching the height of the stack of the byzantine health care act passed a few years before. Each document had to be identified, scanned and placed into the word and excel documents she had been preparing for over the last two months. Each piece was a nail in the coffin of the conspiracy which had been responsible for the few loose cannons, chinks in the armor which had unfortunately ultimately directly led to the deaths of Martha and Hector, and indirectly to the unlamented Miller Beck and David Ridges.

"Different places, I called in a few favors out of state, but a lot is from Ferg's brother in Sheridan. He kinda owed me a favor."

It must have been a _mountain_ of favors to match the _mountain_ of documents.

"Which brother is that?" Ferg had two, and a sister, if she remembered correctly. His dad was in construction, something like that. Ferg occasionally took a day off to help out his dad at sites.

"His oldest brother, Mark. Must be, oh, about your age."

_Ouch._ To Walt, ever the mentor of a youngster in trouble, a _young _man_ her_ age. Walt seemed oblivious to what he had said.

"He did, huh? Why did he owe you a favor?"

He looked up sharply from where he was scanning yet another document. "Some computer-related issues a few years back. Hacking, mostly."

Now, she was fascinated. "So you helped Ferg's brother out of a _computer hacking_ thing…"

"It was a misunderstanding, really, but it could have been felony material, so he's been pretty receptive to helping us round up some of these financials and emails."

"Seriously impressed, Walt," she said, scanning another document in and assigning it a number. "Had no idea."

As he reflected on an image taken from the stack of paper, she paused, wondering if the Murder Board were winding down, their on-hold relationship dynamics might change as well.

Walt had been firm about it as they had begun the project:

"_You_ said it months ago in this very truck, until we figure out who created Barlow and Jacob as pawns, anyone close to me is in danger. You're right, it's chess: the judges are the bishops, but we have to find the ones who could make the moves to put Barlow and Jacob into motion," he said, grimacing, "and we still haven't found the Queen who can make moves like that. That could be multiple counties, regional, or even state level." He added after a few moments, "Knights are sometimes good at taking down Queens, but I doubt there are any Knights in this particular chess set."

At that, she pursed her lips, wondered how recently he had looked into his own mirror, but he was _right_, the high echelon of corruption terrified her—at _that_ level, in _Durant_? How could four or five people in the lowest population, geographically largest county in America combat _that?_

Now he was back to staring at a single document in his hands. He finally, slowly, as though reluctant to do so, placed it in the open area in the middle on the Murder Board and stuck a pin firmly through it.

It was late enough she was getting bleary-eyed and coffee wasn't really doing it for her that late, but the latent caffeine rush was just enough to penetrate what he had just added to the Murder Board.

She inhaled sharply. "Fucking shit—The Queen?" she whispered. Hard to believe from where they had started, that they had found the enigmatic player who had set everything in motion…although it still looked like Martha's death was a momentary panic put into motion by a vindictive Barlow at the third tier of players in the game. It didn't look like the upper echelons had directed that, but it had been the weakest point of the game, where the pieces around it began trying to protect the others in quick succession. Hopefully the pieces would soon begin falling—into jail.

"It makes all the sense in the world, really. Wyoming royalty, and Martha paid for it," he said in an odd, thick voice, and when she turned, he was hunched over in tears. Something inside her broke watching him, and somehow just a palm on his forearm wasn't enough. She stepped over and enfolded him in her arms where he sat, his head hot against her chest. She would give anything for this board to free him from the prison in his mind he had inhabited alone the last few years.

He shouldn't have ever been involved in the investigation because his wife had been the victim precipitating the Murder Board. In Absaroka County, there had been no one else who could have possibly had the determination, interest, or willing to take the self-risk involved in putting it together. Even at this difficult moment, his grief was far preferable than resolving to take matters into his own hands, again. As she peered at the picture of "The Queen," she did a double-take.

"Walt, that can't be right…the evil mastermind is what, all of _seventeen_?"

"His photo may be the place marker, but he's not quite the end game," he said, voice still thick. "Carter might be the technological front, because as a minor he's under the radar—and he didn't inherit or lose the money. I'm betting the actual Queen is Graham, and we're about this close—" he pinched his thumb and forefinger together—"if we can financially link Carter transfers with Graham." He looked to the stack of documents. "We still have a lot of documents to go through, but I'm pretty sure we'll find it in there. It may be emails, numbered accounts, something putting them together."

"Walt," she said suddenly. "What about education accounts, like the judges' sons?"

He stared up at her, then at the pile of documents. "You're right. That's their M.O. That has to be it, and the proof is probably in there."

"Shit," she whispered, "the _whole_ family. Penny is in prison for what—20 years?"

"The whole family _except_ for," he said with emphasis, "_Welles_, who walked out of that cesspool and stayed far away."

The momentary adrenalin glow was fading, the fillip of success leading to more questions.

"But _why_, with their fortune?"

Walt, still hunched over, shook his head. "Maybe because reports of the growth of their fortune were greatly exaggerated, and that's why Penny did what she did. They got hurt in the '08 crash. Their financials all look like they took a serious hit."

"So how is Cady's Cameron Maddox linked into all this? I didn't know Maddox and the Van B's knew one another."

"Maddox is related to the wife of one of the judges. He has to be just a mule, transferring cash through Carter/Graham to his principals. He got a cut along the way. So many little cuts, laundering and re-laundering…"

"So if lots of people are getting small cuts, where's the casino money going? How did they expect to hide it after construction?"

Walt grimaced. "According to what I can piece together, most of the _investments_ are now secured somewhere in the Caiman Islands. There are cooked books everywhere showing the cash is there, but it can't be. It's been siphoned off to the judges and the Van Blarcoms."

"But the income from the casino was expected to offset the shortfalls and save Jacob from the deficiencies before they became noticeable?"

"That's the theory…I would love to confront Jacob, or have the Casino Board confront him to producing evidence of the money. I can't, of course…but I've thought maybe an anonymous tip…especially as the contractors are going to start submitting their billings as final construction begins. I'm guessing that even without an arrest, that Jacob Nighthorse is going to have some 'splainin' to do, since the casino is so far behind schedule." His lips were pulled back in an unpleasant grin.

Her arm gripped his shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Walt. This is way more than we ever thought—"

"It was pretty much _what_ I thought, after finding out what Cassandra told Martha, about the Cheyenne graves. Even Hector somehow knew more was going on, and the evidence was in his Job Jar, which was why he was targeted and executed by David Ridges."

"Shit," she said again, with some heat, yet shivering a little as she remembered Hector's scalped head and dying last wish. "So, what now?"

"We finish, we put duplicate flash drives and documents in two separate bank boxes with other people's names on them, and we send a 3rd and 4th to the FBI and state respectively. They can counterbalance each other's investigations so that they don't just get put on hold."

"Wow. I've never been involved in an investigation this size. Whose names will the boxes under?"

He exhaled. "I'm not sure, yet. It just needs to not be _us._"

She went cold, because she realized that in this, he was still protecting her, that it was in case someone tried to eliminate them from the chain of evidence…They had both discussed upping their life insurance policies after everything that had happened, and wills to release the Murder Board documents to the press in the event of their untimely death.

"I'm leaning towards Henry for one of them."

"Good idea. What about Cady for the other?"

He fidgeted.

"Oh, got it, don't want to put her at risk, either."

He shrugged. "Maybe Ruby. She wants them hurt, after all."

"And we take down the board and get it back to the station."

"After I fix it up a little, but you've done a masterful job on writing it up, Vic."

"_We_ did. We're a _team_, Walt."

She stared down at him, where the tracks of tears still lay on his cheeks. Shit, he was still mourning Martha. It was not the time for the discussion of any form of more _personal_ teamwork. Not yet. She had been hoping since the divorce was final, but it was more that this needed to be put to bed before they put their personal lives into it.

"Let's finish this part and get it dismantled before morning. I want it to disappear before anyone gets wise to this final stage. We can go through what's left in little bits here. I'll take care of the repairs and bring it in."

"In this room, under the old sheet, it surely escaped any scrutiny. If anyone was watching the nights my truck's been out here, they'd think the Sheriff is diddling the deputy."

Walt winced and made a tsking sound with his tongue. "I hope the board escaped scrutiny for both our sakes, and that I didn't destroy your reputation in the process, because it was a good idea to set it up here."

"I'm glad we're pretty much done, though. It's still _cold_ back here, and it's almost summer!"

He stood up, contrite. "I'm sorry, Vic, I guess…I guess I've never noticed. Do you want a blanket?"

"What," she grinned, "you've never noticed that don't take my jacket off?"

"Maybe I don't notice a lot of things," he muttered, almost as though he was beginning to shake off the paralyzing effects of the Murder Board, as they began to double-check every document and link as they removed them. The word _meticulous_ rambled around in her head. It would have taken a staff of 20 to do something like this in Philly.

"Good-bye and good-riddance, Murder Board," she said under her breath, but regretted the closeness they had developed around each other during several months of intensive evenings together. Of course the hoped-for outcomes would be to someday provide justice for Martha, and maybe keep Walt from going after Jacob, the judges, Malachi, the Van Blarcoms, Cameron Maddox, and all those dirty in the entirety of it. She sighed, just a dozen people spread over three counties, but what a mess!

Almost summer…she had a thought.

"Walt?"

"Hmmm? He was slowly dismantling documents from the board after checking against the corresponding numbers in the document on her laptop.

"You know, Ruby's granddaughter Janine's getting married in June. June 27th. I just thought of it after I said summer."

"Oh, right. I remember the invitation."

"Would…would you want to go together? This will have gone out long before then."

That drew his attention. "Shouldn't I be asking you that? To go, I mean?"

"Would you have?"

He made a noise through his nose. "Probably not. I'd forgotten about it."

"Ruby won't let you forget about it." But now she was smiling. She told me," and she said it like Ruby had, kind of slyly, "Plus-ones are welcome!"

He ducked his head, but he was now sort of smiling. It was a definite improvement over the earlier tears.

"It might be a nice way to do something together without the whole town commenting."

"Oh, the whole town will comment."

She made a face.

"What do you typically wear to a wedding?" she asked, glad she had been able to change the topic sufficiently.

"Whatever Cady tells me to wear."

She brightened. "Good answer! So, are we on?"

"Did I just get asked out on a date?"

"Noooo…we were both invited. We're just going together, instead of separately."

"Well, okay, then," he said, and focused his attention back on the board.

She was _so_ glad the board was nearly done…


	7. Chapter 7

**Survival**

**Chapter 7**

**Less than Big Indians**

—**Four Months Ago—**

"And, just _why_ are we going on a cloak-and-dagger in Sheridan, in a county where going undercover for you means taking your star off, putting on shades or changing your hat or jacket?" She was in her own gold leather jacket, over a turtleneck and jeans. Most importantly, neither of them carried a sidearm, although she knew without doubt Walt would have his duty weapon and a little extra _something_ stashed away in some cranny of Omar's enormous truck. It was just how he was wired.

But it was that spring-summer beauty in the Bighorns, and the landscape was greening up for its quick surge and retreat. The Murder Board, which seemed to include everything but the kitchen sink and Lizzie on it (and she still withheld judgment on that; no doubt a link would appear sometime) had been sent out almost two months ago.

"Because if I told you about it, you wouldn't have come." Enigmatic, but all he'd revealed so far.

"So what's the plan?"

"Lunch, we're meeting a couple of guys."

"Snitches?

"Nope."

"Dealers?"

"Nope."

"Perps?"

"Nope."

She gave an exasperated sigh. "So are we billing time to the county, right now? Am I on duty?"

"Probably not. Consider this a favor to me." He looked over to her, a faint grin on his face, but tension there, too. The Murder Board was long gone, but she knew he'd been having endless phone discussions with higher mucky-mucks both State and Fed over it, and she knew why he was keeping her out of it. As Branch had once said, it could be dangerous to know where the bodies were buried.

To keep the phone conversations safer, Ferg's brother Mark had helped them run scans for bugs at the office several times, and multiple scans on all the office computers, including the laptops and their cell phones. Lately it had been hard to know where paranoia began and the rural Mayberry vibe ended. So far, the scans and physical checks hadn't found anything, but they were still hoping no one had known about the Murder Board, either. It was merely precautionary and common sense. Ruby was a little disconcerted about it all.

"Can't be too careful," Walt had told her. "We've had some sensitive information come through here in the last year." He had left it at that. Things had been quiet in Durant the last few weeks, so this little jaunt was a welcome diversion, albeit a mysterious one.

He was still watching for her to react.

"Like I wouldn't do you a favor? Okay, then of course I'll do it."

He glanced over again, lips pressed together, an inscrutable expression on his face. Regret? Fear? What the_ hell _was_ that? _she wondered_._

They drove up to a pleasant little café, nothing special. Vic thought maybe it was a poster child for the generic café of the year. It had that most dangerous testimony of all, "Fine Food," plastered in the window.

Inside, Walt scanned the room, and began directing her along, his large hand against the small of her back.

Two men sat in a booth near the back. The one facing her made her say, "Aw, _hell_, no!" and brace herself to turn around, but Walt's arm in her back, and his big body, blocked her way.

It was no other than her buddy, Special Agent Towson, FBI, whom she had punched out a couple of years ago. The other man turned around at her words, and he looked familiar but she couldn't place him. They were both wearing simple long-sleeved polo shirts with windbreakers. If she'd been a suspect, she would have smelled FBI from a mile off…and she didn't mean the Wyoming acronym used for Fucking Big Indians.

She pressed her lips together.

The men stood, and the one she couldn't place slid around with her buddy Towson.

"Thanks for coming, Walt," that man said and shook Walt's hand. He gave her a look like he was assessing his chances that he'd get it back, but thrust his hand out to her as well. She shook and released it. She had learned to give a firm handshake—in a household with four brothers, you _learned._ The man looked faintly relieved to have it back. She wondered if he'd been briefed on _The Holy Terror_ aspect of her past, or her proficiency at reverse wristlocks on miscreants.

"Not at all. I told you we'd hear you out." She took heart at his tone. Mild Walt was more terrifying in her mind than Threatening Walt.

"We would prefer to talk with her privately," said Towson, setting her hackles up.

"I'd rather we all understood each other," said Walt, perfectly pleasant, but shooting her a _behave_ look. As though she wouldn't if she were alone with Towson. Or the other guy. Well, he might be right, at that.

Other guy spoke. "Deputy Moretti, I'm Cliff Cly. I don't think we met, then, but Walt assisted me in a case down in Powder Junction a couple of years ago. My jaw is still sore."

"So," she said, smart-mouthed but unwilling to take any guff. "Sounds like you and Agent Towson have undergone similar treatments at our hands. Is this where we get suitably chastened and sent back to Absaroka with our tails between our legs?"

"_Vic_." It was Walt, a soft but low warning. He was saying, _Listen, don't speak. _If she had learned anything in three years, it was if Walt was listening, she should, too. So she listened.

"Agent Towson and I are here because we have been sifting through a body of remarkable documents which came into our offices a couple of months back."

She waited. Working with Walt, she had perfected that pleasant, polite look of apparent patience, while nothing could be further from the truth. The documents he mentioned had to be from the Murder Board, but…so _what_?

A way-too-smiley waitress with the perky tag "Betsy" came by with water and took their orders. The conversation halted until she was gone.

"Well, short version, we were both impressed with the quantity and organization of the material, the cross-references to support the links, and the strength of the conclusions reached. We figured you must've borrowed a team of deputies from another county, and a firm to help you put it together…"

She thought about the late, caffeine-laced nights where just Walt and she had slogged through that huge pile of documents, with Ferg cheering them on, bringing them even more from Mark's latest haul, about cold pizza and a colder, empty back room, where she'd held a big tough-guy sheriff against her as he cried over his lost love…

"…but the sheriff assures us there were only four people, two providing data collection and two sifting through everything to produce the documents we have."

She was still waiting. _Get to the point_, she thought.

"We are here today prepared to offer the creator of these documents a position."

"A _position_?" Inside she bubbled with hysterical laughter. "For _Walt_ and me?" Walt, after all, had put the byzantine puzzle together, she had just been his pipeline to the laptop.

Why wasn't Walt in his _I want to punch your lights out_, mode? She thought he'd be outraged, or at least reacting. Instead, when she looked to him, he looked grim and shuttered, and she thought with the paralyzing horror of realization, _oh, fuck, he's in the_ "_We've lost and hired deputies before"_ mode. Shit. The job offer wasn't for him and he didn't want to queer it for her. Shit. Shit. Shit.

"Six months' training at the FBI facility in Quantico, then your own investigations division in DC. Very generous salary and perks, expense stipends." They proceeded on into great detail over the offer. All she felt was shock and pity. Shock they would ask, and pity that they were about to be let down in the very worst way. Would _fuck off_ perhaps be too abrupt_?_

She wondered if her face registered abject horror. Or funk. She looked down, as their lunch orders arrived. Betsy checked in and flew off to happier tables.

The FBI guys both began to devour theirs, telling an amusing story about a suspect who had hidden the valuable contents of a safe in his toilet tank with the water off, until his girlfriend had used initiative when she needed to use the toilet…

Meanwhile, Walt didn't touch her, wouldn't look at her, and didn't eat much of his, which said volumes to her. _He was afraid. He didn't want her to go, but he didn't want to get in the middle._ She had heard it all before, about her marriage. Yada yada yada. This was déjà vu.

Well, _fuck—_why did he not just_ say _that_? _But instead, as always, he said nothing.

Betsy arrived back in a few minutes to check on their food.

"I think the two of us would like boxes, please," she said, without consulting Walt. No use to waste good food that the FBI was no doubt paying for in the courting of her. She caught Walt's eyes. His lips were pressed together and he still wasn't eating. He finally shifted in his seat when the agents' mouths were full again.

"This is a pretty great honor, to be asked, Vic," Walt burst out finally, in what she thought of as his _calm and considering _voice. He used it to draw out suspects or reassure Horse in a storm. Well, this _was_ a storm—a shit-storm! That was her cue, though.

"And I thank you for your generous offer, gentlemen, although a great deal of the—_document—_is really the sheriff's work, and he's too modest to reveal that," she said, suddenly remembering manners her long-suffering mother had drilled into her as a sprout. She thought maybe she should use a line from Pride and Prejudice on how to reject an offer of marriage: that they did her a great honor, but there was no way she'd accept…something like they were _the last man on_ _Earth she could be prevailed upon to marry_ sort of rejection. Instead, she went silent.

"I've already chatted with Walt, and we know how he feels, but will you at least think about it?" asked Cliff Cly. Somewhere along the way, Cliff boy had tuned into the fact that she was ignoring Towson and had become the Team Towson spokesman. One grudge from the Terror doth a lifetime make. Doing absolutely nothing so that Walt would likely freeze to death above Tensleep had firmly placed Towson pretty high on the Moretti Shit List.

It hadn't been the high-tech FBI, but friend Omar's contributions to Walt's well-being which had saved him that time That and Air Omar were two of Omar's most redeeming qualities in Vic's mind, which did not place him on said Moretti Shit List, but he still remained firmly on the Don't Hit on Me list. There were days she almost appreciated him, just not when he made his plays.

"Yes. I'll think."

"You have time. Off the record, though, you should decide in the next few months, before the first arrests are made."

Her eyes went to Walt's, and they shared a tiny moment of triumph. That was what the Murder Board had been all about, to get a measure of justice for Martha.

"Okay."

Each of the men produced a card, handed them to Vic. They signaled for the check, and went up front to pay, leaving Walt and Vic alone in the booth with their lunches and two boxes. She quickly moved around to the other side where the FBI agents had been sitting, so she could look him in the eye.

"Walt, what the fuck was _that_?"

"It's an offer."

"I'm aware of that. You knew about this? Set me up?"

"I…knew you wouldn't listen without my cooperation."

"You think I _should_ listen? Are you trying to get rid of me? Honesty, Walt, no "getting in the middle" shit-lines this time."

A long moment, before, "No," he said, almost explosively. "I want you to stay, but you should at least have options. Everyone should have options."

She canted her head, like a dog which didn't understand a new command.

"What about you?"

"Me?" he didn't feign his surprise at the question.

"What. About. You. Your options. We talked a while back about you running again, resigning mid-term, and me being acting sheriff until the next election. Glass ceiling in Absaroka and all that."

"Yep."

"And you asked me to stay when I got my divorce papers."

"Yep."

"You held me after getting stitched up."

"Yep."

"But you haven't said anything since. Murder Board's done, and according to the FBI, a great success. You were kind of lukewarm about us just _arriving_ together to Janine's wedding, and that's still coming up. Maybe after the FBI offer today, I'm saying I don't know where I stand with you."

It was bold, but she was pushing him just a little, making him stand up for himself.

"My feelings haven't changed."

She heard Mr. Darcy in _Pride and Prejudice_ in her head again. _"My feelings for you haven't changed, if my presence is still adverse to you, then I will leave you be…"_

"Which feelings would those be?" she asked. In for a penny, in for a pound…Get it _out_ there. Towson and Cly could not even compete for last place, if he would just _tell _her_._

It was pulling teeth, twisting arms, gnashing of teeth…it was great glaciers grinding their way down to carve a valley, it was…

"I still want you to stay. If you're willing, I want to start seeing you, now that…some things have been resolved. I want you find a place to live better than the Dump."

"Dump?" She had no idea he had any notion where she was living.

"That trailer. That's my fault."

"_Your fault_? She had finally rented an old, winterized travel trailer to sleep at when she wasn't pulling night shifts at the station. It wasn't the Taj Majal, but it was clean.

"I'd like a chance."

She blinked. Had the glaciers in the valley just started to melt? The convo had definitely shifted into Twilight Zone territory. She blinked again.

"I'm not married anymore, but I'm still younger and your deputy."

She could almost feel him gathering himself to respond. "Married was a deal-breaker. I think I've made peace with the other two."

She couldn't help herself, she grinned. "You _think_, huh?

"I _have_ made peace with those."

"So, two offers today? My cup is overflowing."

"That wedding is only a couple of weeks away."

"Yep." She could play his game.

"Let's meet there. After that, let's test the waters for more."

More? _More?_

A pile of pulled teeth and twisted arms rose up before her. The great glaciers ground to a halt.

"Well, okay. I'm good with that."

And it was as simple as that. They left the café, boxes in hand.

"So, suit or Dockers for the wedding?"

"What?" he asked startled.

"What will Cady have you wearing?"

"Can I get back to you on that?"

She smiled. She already knew what she would be wearing. She hadn't watched him for three years for nothing.


End file.
